


Business Matter

by Dordean



Series: Swallow's Song [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bath Sex, Both of them, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Mild Kink, Open Marriage, Open Relationships, Politics, Power Play, and I'm me, and a generous dose of banter, and smug boi is being himself, at least that's what they claim, because my brat is being herself, for now, hey there's smut, let's call it politicking with benefits, with just a little angst sprinkled on top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-24 04:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18161426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean
Summary: “Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon,” Tankred said, his voice low and full of authority, and to her growing irritation, Ciri found it just a little difficult to focus on what was being said. “Thou have come to this house upon my word. Upon my word and henceforth to this house thy blood belongs. Be welcomed to Ensenada Palace; be welcomed to house Thyssen.”***Queen of Cintra's first official visit to Kovir goes as planned.Mostly anyway.





	Business Matter

**Author's Note:**

> I may have become as weak for the Smug Boi (tm) as Ciri. A perfect example of an author writing a pairing where they want to be both characters. Anyway. What was I... Ah, right. Politics. Yes.
> 
> This is a follow up to [Blood Ties](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485585?view_full_work=true) and as such, the political background of this piece will make little sense if you haven't read my Mammoth. However, the beginning of [Chapter 7](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485585/chapters/40352645) has Ciri's bio, which can act as a summary should you want to try this slice of politics with porn without having to go through all the 90k words of what my soul is made of.
> 
> Beta by the one and only Smut Master [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir). ❤️
> 
> Here's a [picture](https://eeerlenwald.tumblr.com/post/180449426609/tankred-thyssen-the-king-of-kovir-and-poviss-for) of the perfection that is the King of Kovir, Poviss, Talgar, Velhad and Narok, by [gerureru](https://eeerlenwald.tumblr.com). Here's their [engagement ](https://andordean.tumblr.com/post/181716155787/blood-ties-dordean-wied%C5%BAmin-the-witcher) by [TauntingCrow](https://tauntingcrow.tumblr.com/).  
>   
> 

***

The rain in Kovir was as reliable as its neutrality used to be. 

But on the day of Ciri's first official visit, washed out blue December skies greeted them instead, and the rare sun rays lit up the rooftops and towers of Lan Exeter. They danced on the steel grey canal waters, reflecting off the golden ornaments of the countless bridges.

Tankred had no inclination for superstition, but it was impossible not to appreciate the irony of such a coincidence. Not to mention, the lack of rain made the celebrations that much more enjoyable, and visually pleasing. Being lashed by the wind and the rain as he waited outside the royal palace to greet the visitors was the traditional way for most of the official visits in Kovir to begin, and he was thankful that he was spared such joy this time.

The elaborately decorated barge carrying the visitors made its way slowly down the Great Canal, where the richest and the most influential had their residences. The fronts of the tall, narrow townhouses were decorated with flags and flowers. The boat was now close enough for him to make out shapes and faces: Priscilla was there, together with Dandelion, and two of Ciri's trusted men. And at the front, shielded from the bitter wind by a splendid crimson cloak, stood Ciri herself. 

None of this came as a surprise, as all the plans were discussed and shared ahead of the time. What _did_ come as a surprise was his reaction: even though Tankred had never considered himself particularly attached to his house symbols, at the sight of the Queen of Cintra in Thyssen colours his brain dragged to a halt. 

It was happening, and it was changing...everything. 

The crowds that gathered on the promenades and terraces were cheering loudly; thousands of red rose petals released into the air were now falling down slowly onto the barge, swirling in the gusts of the breeze, floating like a thick red carpet on the canal waters.

The boat stopped by the landing, and the guards bowed before leading Ciri out onto the wide stairs leading to the palace. She walked towards him slowly, the cape billowing in the wind, sweeping up the marble stones behind her. 

Not for the first time he was struck by the pure improbability of the chain of events that brought this moment forward. That she returned to claim Cintra at all—that she succeeded—almost beggared belief. And yet, here she was, and with her came the possibilities he never would have considered before. 

Historically, Kovir's focus had always been internal, the Merchants’ Guild connections and the country's reliance on the freedom of trade binding its rulers’ hands. As such, never before had he entertained the idea of widening his country's sphere of influence, not even in a form of bold theories. Kovir was neutral the way the sun rose in the east; both were undisputed facts about the nature of the world.

Now though, some of those bold theories were to become simple consequence of tying his life to the woman who stood in front of him with a small, nervous smile; the woman who almost single-handedly changed the Continent’s shape, as well as its future. 

Lebioda, she looked stunning. 

He bowed as the protocol dictated, then broke it by taking her hands and bringing them to his lips. He could almost hear the crowd collectively holding its breath.

“Your Majesty, it is truly a joy to welcome you to Kovir.”

***

This was somehow worse than Ciri had expected. 

The portal had left their little group in the harbour at the mouth of the Trago. From there, the barge took them along the Great Canal into the heart of the city, where the Ensenada Palace loomed in the distance. 

The closer they got, the more difficult it was to quell her nerves. 

Ciri tried to focus on Alvar's excited chattering about the history of the estates they passed; she'd been to Lan Exeter once before, but she hadn't really had the opportunity to appreciate it at the time. Now though, even in her distracted state, it was difficult not to admire its architectural wonders, lit up by the rare December sun. With the rose petals swirling in the air like crimson snowflakes to complete the picture, the city looked beautiful. 

But pretty as it might have been, the whole thing still felt a little ridiculous. It didn't help that Dandelion and Priscilla kept trying to outdo one another, coming up with increasingly absurd verses to commemorate the occasion. The comparisons to birds, be it doves or swallows, she was well used to; the rose symbols were unavoidable considering the circumstances, but when Dandelion declared her _‘a silver lightning that split the blood-soaked skies’,_ she snapped. Not that it made them stop—but it did make them quieter, and a little easier to ignore.

She managed not to stumble walking up the stairs towards the palace; the official greeting ceremony also passed without any hiccups. But all that turned out to be a pleasant stroll in comparison to the official presentation of the Koviri noble houses that followed directly after. 

Since she wasn't officially a ruler yet, it wasn’t an audience; it had a form of a banquet, but one with no breaks and little entertainment. The large chamber that she assumed was a ballroom was filled to the brim with people, and all her senses were assaulted at once: the loud colours of some exotic clothing the likes of which she had never seen; the scents of flowers and perfume mixing in the air; and above all else the _noise_. 

What made it worse was that literally everyone present was looking to speak to her. The nobility was already trying to win favours, the politicians were all smiles and fake geniality, and the trade families were dead set on getting her approval for one entrepreneurial project or another. 

An hour in, her head was pounding. 

“Is everyreasonablyimportant figure from the four kingdoms here?” she murmured to Tankred during the first short moment they had alone. He had been rather supportive during this whole ordeal, pointing out people to remember, or to avoid if possible, and helping her out of the conversations when they became too taxing.

“Yes,” he said simply. “We've had limited ties to Cintra in the past. Now, everybody wants in.”

“Splendid,” she sighed. “How much longer?”

“Some three hours.” He smiled at her groan. 

“At least that's the only state thing for today.” She tried not to rub at her temples, the official smile feeling heavier with every passing moment. “What was so bad about being a witcher…?”

“Winters?” Tankred offered, and she glared at him, but her rebuke was cut short by another noble approaching them. 

“Your Majesties,” the man bowed—just a hair too shallow, Ciri couldn’t help noticing. 

De Rideaux was relentless in training her eye for those little details. He claimed that some people were prone to betraying their intentions long before they made any harmful moves; out of stupidity, arrogance, or because they would have underestimated her. A word too much, a wrong gesture at the wrong time, the small lapses in protocol—it was up to her to catch, register and analyse them, potentially sparing her more trouble in the future. 

What she had found surprising was how quickly noticing them had become a second nature. Her heritage did come in useful, after all. 

Tankred nodded at the man and turned to her. “My Queen, allow me to introduce Silvio Perricho, the Guilds representative, and the member of the Council.”

“It is an honour, Your Grace.” The man took her hand and bowed again, placing a kiss on her palm. As he rose, he shot her a disarming smile. He was devastatingly handsome, with his olive skin and black eyes, but something about him put her on edge. “Seeing you in person makes our King's decision, surprising as it was, so much easier to understand.”

“Flattery won't get you far, my lord,” she smiled. 

“It really won't,” Tankred threw in, smiling back at her. “I tried.” 

Perricho laughed with an easy grace of a lifetime court player. 

“I shall nonetheless keep trying to win our Queen's favours by any means necessary.” He was clearly unaccustomed to refusal. “I trust you enjoy this little celebration.”

“Immensely,” Ciri said. She kept sarcasm to a minimum, but seeing Tankred's amused look, she decided to soften the message even further. While the king had insight that allowed him to see through her words, most people in this room were professionals. Being too cocky during her first visit might not be the best strategic move; she had to learn more about the players first. “I wasn't sure what to expect, but everyone's enthusiasm is truly heartwarming.”

“Your Majesties.” Tankred's chamberlain appeared beside them and bowed, then turned to the king. “Sire, the Talgar ambassador was looking to speak to you.”

Tankred's smile grew just a shade apologetic as he looked at her. 

“My Queen, I'm leaving you in the best hands. I will rejoin you as soon as I can.”

As Perricho watched him walk away, a peculiar expression flashed across his face, but it was gone before she could name it. When he turned back to her, he was all charm again. He offered her his arm and led her towards the centre of the room; a blatant demonstration if she'd ever seen any.

“What is Your Majesty's first impression of Kovir?”

“It's not my first time here,” Ciri said and then added, smiling. “Although it might have been the first time I've seen it in sunshine. It does add a lot of appeal.”

“We have been incredibly lucky with the weather today,” Perricho said in a smooth voice. There was something about him she found unsettling, but the feeling was too vague to put into words. “It made the welcoming ceremony even more beautiful.”

“Indeed.” Ciri nodded towards the far corner, where Dandelion was enchanting a small audience with his stories. “I believe two ballads have already been composed.”

“I am looking forward to our poets’ performance tomorrow—although nothing will beat witnessing this occasion in person.” He inclined his head a little.

“You might reconsider that, my lord, once you hear their verses,” Ciri retorted, a touch of bitterness seeping into her voice despite her best attempts. “I often find myself enjoying their depiction of the events much more than I did the events themselves.”

“Quite understandably, with all the violence and hurt. But surely that is not the case here?” 

Ciri looked around, at all the curious faces that surrounded her; the fake smiles, the empty gestures.

“No, of course not,” she lied with conviction. She decided to change the subject, to steer the conversation well away from her past. “Are you from Kovir yourself, my lord?”

“My mother was. My father is a Zerrikanian merchant, who came to Kovir looking for new opportunities.” He made a sweeping gesture, taking in the chamber. “As you can imagine, this city is full of stories like theirs.”

“I look forward to hearing more of them.” She gave him a smile which turned genuine as she spotted Triss walking towards them. 

“Your Grace,” the sorceress curtsied, and nodded at her companion. “Lord Perricho.”

“Miss Merigold,” Perricho acknowledged Triss with a little bow. “It’s always a joy to see you.”

“Likewise, my lord.” Triss was her usual charming self, and Ciri made a mental note to ask her for survival tips. “Would you mind terribly if I borrowed our Queen for a little while?”

“I would—but unfortunately for me, I find it impossible to refuse you, my lady.” Perricho turned to her, took her hand and raised to his lips. “Your Majesty.”

Ciri nodded at him. As soon as he was out of the earshot, she turned to Triss.

“Thank you,” she murmured with gratitude

“You seemed desperate for a way out.” Triss smiled.

“Did I?” Ciri suppressed a grimace. “Damn.”

“Nothing obvious, don't worry. But I'd like to think I know you a little better than this lot.” Triss led her aside, towards the full length windows overlooking the canals; there were less people swarming here, which gave them a little privacy. “How are you keeping?”

“Wonderful, how else.” Ciri nodded at a drinks table nearby. “Anything in here to cure a headache?”

Triss investigated the content of the table and took a glass of what looked like a juice. She then fished out a tiny vial from a well disguised pocket in her belt, uncorked it, and poured a drop of silvery liquid into the glass. She swirled it in and handed the glass to her. 

“Try to avoid alcohol for a little bit; this is a mild pain suppressant. I suspected you might need it.”

“I'll promote you,” Ciri sighed with relief. “Can I promote you?”

“I’m not sure.” Triss chuckled. “But do find out. I am always willing to accept a bigger house.” 

Ciri laughed. 

“Small houses aside, how has Kovir been treating you?” 

“Quite well,” Triss said with a smile. “Don't get me wrong: anything is better than clearing the rat infested warehouses in Novigrad… Well, almost anything. But it’s really interesting, being here. There’s always something happening—and that was even before you entered the picture and flipped it upside down.”

“Did I really?”

“For decades Kovir’s neutrality has never wavered,” Triss said, her voice growing quieter. “I’m not sure you realise how much of a shock Tankred’s decision is. He made a few enemies with it, too; to say the Guilds aren't happy is an understatement. In fact, I have no idea how you managed to convince him.”

“People fail to see just how vulnerable their position was getting.” Ciri shrugged. “Tankred’s move is a preemptive strike; all I did was make him see that.”

Triss gave her an approbative look. “I heard you were doing well; I'm so happy to see that for myself.”

Ciri shot a glance over to where Tankred stood.

“Is the entire Council getting regular updates on me?”

“I do, but only because I ask. And speaking of updates,” Triss shot her a meaningful look and a grin, “you do realise I want all the gossip about our king first?”

Ciri managed not to blush, which she thought was a considerable achievement. 

“There's nothing to gossip about,” she shrugged. “You know well it's only a political arrangement.”

“I've been here for over three years now.” The sorceress smirked. “Let's just say I'm disinclined to believe it.”

“Then maybe it's you who should share with me the gossip about our king?” Ciri quirked an eyebrow. “He didn't get into too many details.”

Triss hesitated for a moment, the playful demeanour faltering. 

“Triss.” Ciri touched her arm, looked around, and lowered her voice. “I’m supposed to marry him. If there is something I should know...”

“Did he tell you about about her?” the sorceress nodded towards the entrance. A woman stood there, looking every bit as regal as what Ciri kept aiming for: a gorgeous dress in deep maroon, beautiful brown curls arranged into a complicated updo, adorned with flowers. The way she carried herself demanded attention. 

“That’s Kordelia?” Ciri shook her head. “Tankred’s standards are certainly impressive.”

“So he did tell you.” The relief in Triss’ voice was palpable. “I heard rumours there are others, but she's the only constant presence, and I guess it's easy to see why.”

“Do you know her?” 

“We've spoken a few times, but nothing more. She has a lot of influence at the court, I can tell you this much. Her family is incredibly well-connected.”

The woman's eyes met Ciri's for a moment, and she gave her the tiniest of nods. Ciri responded in kind, her mind rushing. Would she become an ally, or a rival? Ciri would have little space to maneuver if the woman decided to make Ciri's life difficult—but back in Cintra Tankred implied she was the one who inspired this insane arrangement of theirs.

It was obvious the entire room was waiting for their confrontation; any court anywhere in the world thrived on gossip. Ciri could feel everyone's eyes on them as she sipped her life-saving drink, trying to decide on the best course of action. Before she settled on anything, Tankred approached them.

“I hope I don't interrupt anything important,” he smiled, and nodded at Triss. “Miss Merigold. I trust you enjoy the celebrations.”

“Your Majesty,” Triss dropped into a curtsy.

“I have to say I’m really looking forward to tonight's spectacle,” he said, nodding at Ciri, “and our Queen's thoughts on it.”

“We included all the requests; I hope you will find it satisfactory,” Triss said with a polite smile.

“You are being far too humble, my lady; it hasn't been anything short of breathtaking in the past.” Tankred turned to Ciri. “For now though there are still few people I would like you to meet, my Queen, if you care to accompany me?” 

“Naturally,” Ciri shot Triss a smile, taking the arm Tankred offered her. “Thank you again.”

As he led her away, she took in the hall. The crowds seemed to have thickened even more, impossible as it seemed, and the list of important figures she would need to speak to was likely much longer than those 'few’ Tankred mentioned. At least her headache was already abating; bless Triss and her potion.

“Is Kordelia one of those people you want me to meet?” she asked in a hushed tone.

Tankred shot her a glance.

“She is, yes. I will present her to you the way I did everyone else; not that it'll satisfy people's curiosity.”

“Everyone's hoping for a catfight, eh?” Ciri murmured. Tankred smirked.

“Like I told you at your coronation, the trick is to manage their expectations.”

“Are you saying one of us should make a scene?” Ciri tilted her head. “I can, you know. Just ask.”

He chuckled quietly.

“Maybe some other time. Do you still want to talk to her afterwards?”

“I do,” she gave him an innocent look. “If only because the idea clearly makes you uncomfortable.” 

Tankred scowled at her in response and she hid her grin behind her glass.

“Come then,” he said with a hint of exasperation. “I’ll introduce her.”

***

Tankred had harboured a bad feeling about Ciri and Kordelia meeting, ever since it had been suggested. Kordelia's formal introduction was brief and neutral; none of them was looking to attract more attention than was absolutely necessary. But between Ciri's bluntness and Kor's temper, he had little idea what to expect from their informal conversation. 

The fact that once he brought up Ciri's suggestion, Kor agreed immediately, didn't help matters at all. From what little interaction he'd had with Ciri, the two women seemed to share some similarities, which meant they would either get along splendidly, likely at his expense, or they would hate each other's guts. 

Tankred wasn't quite sure which option was safer.

After the banquet was over, he took Ciri up to the study; she dropped her official persona as soon as they got behind closed doors, and sank into the armchair by the fire with a relieved sigh.

“Thank _gods_ this is over. I no longer remember my own name.”

Tankred smiled. “Wine? Or do you prefer something stronger?”

“Do you happen to have any mead, or is it too barbarian for your standards?” 

He laughed. “Would a 20-year-old Mahakam gverc do?”

“It would do very nicely, yes,” Ciri grinned at him. “There are some perks of this mess that I find very appealing.”

“Wait till you try my Côte-de-Blessure selection.” He handed her a glass with golden liquid. “It redefines the meaning of perks.”

“Looking forward to that,” she raised her drink in a toast. 

The door behind him opened and Hillard announced Kordelia. As she walked in, Tankred had to suppress a smile. Subtlety had always been one of her strengths; she had been playing the court like a well tuned lute ever since he could remember. Now, she had changed into his favourite dress and let her hair down the way he loved—a gentle reminder of the hierarchy in place.

Ciri stood up to greet her.

“Your Majesty.” Kordelia dropped into a graceful curtsy. “It's a pleasure to meet you, properly this time. I've heard a lot.”

“Have you.” Ciri shot him a glance, but when he didn't react, busying himself with his and Kor's drinks, she turned back to Kordelia and gestured to the armchair opposite her. “Firstly, please drop the titles. I can't care less for them, and they will only make this more difficult. I'm Ciri,” she said, sitting back down.

Kordelia studied her for a moment in silence.

“Tankred mentioned you were refreshingly non-pretentious,” she said eventually, taking her seat. “I guess I didn't expect this attitude to extend to me as well.”

“Would you prefer empty formalities?” There was an edge to Ciri's voice now. “I was told you were the one who liked to keep things straightforward, and out in the open.”

“I assumed we’d keep some level of formality, yes,” Kor tilted her head, her brown curls dancing on her back. 

“Only in public,” Ciri said with a shrug. “This situation is insane enough as it is.”

“Insane?” Kordelia repeated; Ciri raised her eyebrows at her.

“How else would you call this: the three of us sitting together for a talk?” 

“Wasn't this your idea?” Kordelia shot back. 

“The meeting was; after Tankred suggested this arrangement, which he said you inspired. I'd love to hear more about this, in fact.”

Tankred walked over to them, gave Kordelia her wine, and settled beside her with a glass of his favourite brandy. He needed it to get through these treacherous waters.

“I told you I wanted to have an ally in you,” he said to Ciri. “I cannot achieve that while simultaneously keeping you in the dark about certain aspects of my life. And, much like you, there are some things I will not part with.”

“And you're fine with all that?” Ciri asked Kordelia, who shrugged. 

“Tankred's marriage was inevitable. I had to reconcile myself with this fact back when things became more serious,” she said, and sent him a small, warm smile that tugged at his heart, before she turned back to Ciri. “I admit I was hoping for a meaningless union towards some alliance of little importance; I was hoping for someone susceptible, someone who could be easily manipulated. 

“You, appearing out of nowhere in Pont Vanis, offering Cintra, and then going through with your plans, was a highly unpleasant surprise that put an end to those hopes. But then you agreed to this arrangement, which was an even bigger surprise.”

A look of satisfaction flickered on Ciri's face, before she turned serious again. 

“Whatever even gave you this idea?” she shook her head. 

“My standards are likely skewed by my parents’ marriage,” Tankred said, “but I can’t imagine a life where I have to constantly question my partner's loyalty. Such relations cannot be built on lies and omission. The future of our countries depends on our cooperation.”

“You both have enough enemies externally,” Kordelia added. “Home is where it should be safe.” She broke off for a moment; then, in what was for her a rare display of sincerity, she added, “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you agreed to this. I am sick of pretending.”

Ciri looked at them both in silence for a moment.

“I still have no idea how to make this work, exactly,” she said to Kordelia. “Which is one of the reasons I suggested this meeting. One thing I am certain of is that you cannot remain just some figure at the court who keeps Tankred's bed warm, as everyone is only too happy to imply. I need to know more about you. I have to be able to trust both of you, or we can forget this whole thing.”

Tankred relaxed a little, and nodded at her with a smile. 

“We'll figure out the fine details with time. For now, how does open and honest communication sound?” 

“Starting from now?” Ciri glanced at him. There was something in her tone he didn't like at all. 

“Yes,” he said with a scowl. Him relaxing might have been premature, after all. “What revelations are you planning to hit me with this time?”

He took a sip of his brandy and braced himself while Ciri smiled at Kordelia.

“Let me begin this honest exchange by saying that I find you utterly fascinating. I understand my husband-to-be completely.”

Tankred choked on his drink, the alcohol burning his throat; Kordelia let out a surprised laugh.

“She's good,” she announced, turning to him. “We're keeping her.” 

“Kor, for gods’ sake,” he hissed, struggling to catch a breath, and cast a quick look at Ciri. Being non-pretentious was one thing, being looked down at, even as an incredibly ill-timed joke, could have been a different thing altogether. Luckily, she only gave him a grin in response; but he still fixed Kordelia with an angry stare. “How in the seven hells did you go from concerns about protocol to a statement that borders on treason in the space of half an hour?”

“If Her Grace isn't bothered by the lack of formalities, I don't see why I should be.” Kordelia shrugged and smiled at Ciri. “On the subject of honest exchange: flattery will get you far in this court. We're all incredibly vain.”

“I noticed.” Ciri sat back sipping her drink, and studying Kordelia. Tankred felt a vague uneasiness creeping back in. “Tell me, what was your reason for going for this?” She nodded at him.

“My reason?” Kordelia flashed her teeth in a smile. “Initially, I had to inspire him to change his loyalties. But then he proved to be not that bad, and so he stayed.”

Ciri snorted. “I begin to see why you were worried about this meeting,” she told him.

Tankred shook his head, suppressing an overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. “As glad as I am to see you finding a common ground, should we perhaps discuss other aspects of our situation?”

“I guess,” Ciri sighed theatrically. Kordelia beside him only smiled. “What do you want to discuss?”

“For one, how often do you think we should meet?”

To her credit, Ciri did pause to think his question through.

“Once a month, perhaps?” she suggested. “At least at the beginning, while we’re still figuring it all out.”

Tankred nodded. “I would have us consult with one another any strategic, long term decisions, or any actions that are likely to impact the other, before making any moves, or commitments. Once a month should be enough for this, under normal circumstances.”

“I'm sure some matters will come up that will require immediate reaction, or more frequent meetings, but we can always use Triss’ and Yennefer’s help,” Ciri said. “Not to mention I can travel here, or to Pont Vanis, at a moment's notice, if needs be.”

“From my side, I’ll do my best to be out of your hair then,” Kordelia said. “You will have enough to deal with. Unless the Queen wishes to see me, naturally.” She smiled at Ciri, who sent her a grin in response. Tankred tried not to let his exasperation show. Kor turned back to him. “Have you taken Ciri to the royal wing yet?” 

“I'll do that after we’re done here.” 

“You may want to do it now, if you still want to see the best of the celebrations.” Kordelia stood up. “We can continue this tomorrow.”

Ciri raised from her seat and extended her hand. After the briefest moment of hesitation, Kordelia took it.

“Thank you for agreeing to this meeting.” Ciri said.

“You were right, it was necessary—and unexpectedly enjoyable.” Kordelia smiled. She curtsied at them both. “Until tomorrow, Your Majesties.”

***

“That went better than I had thought,” Ciri said. 

Tankred shot her a pained look and knocked back the rest of his drink, and she struggled to keep her amusement contained. There definitely would be numerous conflicts on their path, but it was good to know Kordelia was willing to cooperate, at least for now. If they treaded carefully, this insane thing might even work. 

“I'm glad you enjoyed yourself.” Tankred stood up and offered her his arm. “Come, I'll show you our chambers.”

Ciri let him lead her through countless corridors and staircases to the top floor of the palace. He stopped outside a large door made from some beautiful dark wood she couldn’t identify. 

“This entire wing of the palace is a space where only the royal family, a few trusted people, and a handful of the most loyal guards and servants have access to.” He turned to her. “The procedure to get the spell to recognise you is simple, but unfortunately a little painful, as your blood is required. Give me your hand.”

Ciri obeyed, curious. Tankred produced a small dagger from his belt, he held her hand, palm up, and gave her an apologetic smile. “This will hurt.”

He cut across her palm with the blade, just enough to draw blood. Ciri winced, but the pain went away almost immediately. Tankred waited a moment, then pressed her hand against the platinum plaque with an intricate symbol on the right side of to the door.

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon,” he said, his voice low and full of authority, and to her growing irritation, Ciri found it just a little difficult to focus on what was being said. “Thou have come to this house upon my word. Upon my word and henceforth to this house thy blood belongs. Be welcomed to Ensenada Palace; be welcomed to house Thyssen.”

The air in front of them glimmered. Tankred smiled at her and gestured forward. A little apprehensive, she pressed the handle and pushed the heavy door. 

They opened onto a beautiful wooden staircase, splitting in two before reaching the next level, with slim, elaborately decorated balusters and a burgundy carpet running along its length. Tankred took her hand again, wiped the blood with a silk cloth that he then wrapped gently around her palm. 

“I'll tend to it properly in a moment,” he said, and when she opened her mouth to protest, he shrugged. “Part of the ritual. Come, I'll show you around.”

“Where do these doors lead if someone else was to try and open them?” she asked, stepping through and looking around. She could feel a tingling sensation of the spell on her skin.

“A portal to the dungeons. Neat and tidy.“

“And impressive,” she smiled as they ascended the staircase. 

“The spell's range is limited to these rooms only, which did nothing to save my father,” Tankred said quietly. “Besides, hold that thought—you haven't seen everything yet.

“This part is where the library, and the studies are.” He pointed out the rooms as they passed them. She caught a glimpse of the bookcases and maps through the open doors. “Everything is at your full disposal, do check them at your leisure. The corridor on the other side leads to the bedchambers; my rooms and our shared lounge are there, and adjacent to them, your chambers. They haven't been used in over two decades; my mother and my father always shared a bed.”

He noticed her disbelief, and smiled.

“Yes, I'm aware this is highly unusual. Makes one grow up with unrealistic expectations. But what I want to show you is here,” he put his hand on the small of her back and directed her towards the door at the far end, that opened into a simple, elegant, but in no way special dining room. 

“Is this where I should act amazed?” Ciri quirked an eyebrow at him.

“No.” Still smiling, he opened the heavy curtains that hid a door to the terrace, and led her outside. “This is.”

She would have stumbled if it hadn't been for his hand steadying her. The terrace itself was lovely: partially covered by a glass roof, with a collection of cosy, well-worn furniture in a far corner, enclosed by a wall of ivy and surrounded by a few artful fire pits as the source of warmth. 

But what was truly amazing was the view—she had seen a lot in her journeys, and yet the myriad of lights around her still took her breath away. 

“Lan Exeter,” Tankred said in a quiet voice. 

She walked to the balustrade as if in a trance. The city lay at her feet, the fronts of the townhouses lit up in imaginative ways, their lights dancing on the dark waters of the countless canals. The quirky bridges of all shapes and forms that spanned the city were all adorned with lanterns. Above all that beauty, a spectacle of magical fireworks was in full bloom.

A dragon made of green flames circled above the rooftops, nearly touching the slim palace towers, every now and then breathing fire. She could hear the crowds shouting in awe and delight. The creature swept above them a few more times, then flew over to the sea, where it exploded in a cloud of green sparks that fell gently towards the calm waters.

Tankred’s steps behind her shook her out of her reverie.

“You were right,” she said quietly, turning to him. “This is spectacular.”

“Only a fitting frame for your beauty, then,” he said, and she tried hard not to frown. 

He took her hand and unwrapped the bloodied swathe. He wiped her wound with a cloth that smelled of alcohol; Ciri bit her lip at the sharp sting, but it quickly faded to a numb sensation. He glanced at her.

“I’ve had worse,” she shrugged.

“I do not doubt that,” he retorted, “if only half of the stories I heard of you are true. There.” He bandaged her hand and raised it to his lips to place a kiss on her knuckles. “Almost as good as new, Cirilla of house Thyssen.”

There was a hint of _something_ in his voice, a sentiment she couldn’t identify. She frowned at him.

“Is the concept of marriage as strange to you as it feels to me?”

“A little,” Tankred admitted with a small smile. “But it's growing on me exceptionally fast.”

“You’re doing it again,” Ciri grimaced. He looked at her, his eyebrows raised.

“Doing what?”

“This.“ She gestured to him. “The unnecessary courting dance. What for? We know where we stand.”

She had assumed meeting Kordelia would offer some answers to his behaviour, but she only ended up with more questions. It was plain obvious they had a close relationship, so Tankred's motives remained a mystery to her.

“For you to forget the politics, and enjoy yourself,” Tankred retorted with a smile. “This doesn’t need to be a purely strategic alliance. I have long been a strong believer in combining business and pleasure, whenever possible; correct me if I’m wrong, but you didn’t seem opposed to this idea either.”

Exasperated, she shook her head. Refreshing as it was to be treated like a prize to be won, his answer wasn’t really enough.

“It’s not that simple.”

“How so?”

Ciri was silent for a moment, unsure if confiding this piece of information to him was the smartest move at this stage. But his smugness was toned down for once, and this trust building had to start somewhere, after all.

“I’ve spent most of my life on the run, unable to trust anyone, reduced to an Elder Blood broodmare,” she said quietly. “Everybody was looking to use me—through scheming, persuasion, or good, old-fashioned force. I cannot simply abandon all the caution only because you keep wooing me. I don't yet know who you are.”

Tankred frowned. 

“What kind of person do you take me for?”

“Goal-orientated,” Ciri shot back. “And knowing your circumstances, I can't help but wonder what your goals are.”

He looked taken aback; Ciri turned away to gaze at the lights, the magical show now seemingly winding down. She reminded herself once more that for all Tankred's declarations of trust and the show of admiration, the relation between them was nothing more than an empty political alliance; a marriage of convenience. 

It would do—it would have to do.

A wave of bitter longing swept through her, much as she struggled to contain it. She knew well what the price for her choices was, and there was no point in dwelling on it—only she did, and often.

Uninvited, the familiar images came; imprinted on the insides of her eyelids, like an afterimage caused by staring for too long directly into the burning sun. 

Another night, only months ago, yet so different to this one. A touch, a smile; soft words spoken in an even softer voice. A closeness she craved so much, an intimacy so complete and so full of adoration that a memory of it was enough to break her heart all over again. Just then, for once in her lifetime, she had been seen for who she truly was; her mind and her soul laid bare before another—and she was _loved_ for who she was, if only for a brief moment—

No. This was unfair. She was loved for who she was for _an eternity_. And that knowledge, that certainty, a gift so unexpected, so rare and precious, had to be enough to get her through this ordeal.

She missed Regis so much it hurt; and the worst was, she didn't even know where he was.

She forced herself to take a breath or two, dragging her focus back to the present, but the bitter loneliness remained.

Back in Cintra she at least had friends, she had Geralt and Yennefer, and even if things weren't easy, she could always sneak off to Skellige whenever she needed a break. 

Here, in a country she knew little about, with a stranger at her side, she felt out of her depth; utterly alone against the world.

Was this what her choices were leading to? Was this her future?

An explosion of light snapped her out of her gloomy thoughts; she looked up and had to stifle a gasp. Above them, over the rooftops of Lan Exeter, a golden lion roamed. Mesmerised, she stared at the proud lines of its neck as it looked down to the city, its mane glittering against the sky. It roared, once, twice, thrice, the sound rolling like a thunder, echoing in the night; then it dissolved into a glimmering rain of fiery sparks that sailed down onto the cheering crowds. 

She struggled to hold back the tears. 

“I wanted you to see the grand finale,” the stranger beside her said softly. “Welcome to Kovir, Ciri.”

 _‘Ciri’_. No smugness, no exaggerated title. 

She took a shaky breath, her mind once again a whirlpool of confused thoughts. Could she really risk it, could she allow herself this—to take his words and actions at a face value; to drop her guard, to _enjoy it_ , as he had suggested? 

She still didn't really understand his attitude, but his other relationships were his problem, not hers. Besides, she knew herself well. She could have talked about caution all she wanted, but the chain of actions and reactions he had set in motion during the memorable coronation banquet had only one outcome. All she was doing was stalling for time. And right now, with this thoughtful gesture, he delivered a final blow to the last of her inhibitions. 

Even if nothing about it was sincere, even if it was a calculated move in some game of his, she was done passively watching the situation unfold.

Time to redefine the rules. 

Hand twisted into his tunic, she pulled him in and crushed their lips together. 

She caught him off guard for once, but he recovered immediately; his hands slid up her shoulders to cup her face, the kiss gloriously frantic; no teasing, no finesse, just impatient exploring and pushing and taking, and taking... 

His scent, intoxicating, sweet with some spicy, exotic notes, was making her head spin, and she was just about to forget the whole world when Tankred regained control yet again. He softened the kiss, his lips now gentle, which might have been nice, but it wasn’t what she craved for. Then he broke the kiss altogether and pulled back to look at her, his thumb stroking along her scar.

“So me trying to woo you is working,” he said with a smirk. She glared at him, flushed and confused again, unsuccessfully trying to bury the frustration as he gestured towards the palace. “But you've made your concerns about my motives loud and clear. Come inside, let's talk.” 

***

Their shared lounge was a large room, with a thick, oxblood rug in the centre, and a fireplace on the inner wall; the dancing flames casting shadows onto the mahogany floor. 

Three settees with cushions and blankets stood in a semi circle surrounding the fireplace, with a low, round table between them and a number of small side tables covered with books scattered everywhere. The twin set of doors on the opposite walls led to their respective chambers. 

There was a desk in one corner, a small dining table for four in another; but what caught Ciri's attention were two comfortable looking and well worn armchairs beside a bookcase filled with leather-bound tomes. She made a mental note to investigate them later. 

Everything was kept in deep reds and dark wood; with the countless candles everywhere, the result was warm and incredibly inviting.

She sank into a settee closest to the fire as the windy chill was getting to her bones. Tankred walked over to the cabinet and took out a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“I'll never again complain about Cintra’s winters,” Ciri pulled off her shoes and curled up against the cushions, with a blanket around her feet. 

“There are countless jokes about Koviri weather; I'm sure you've heard most of them on your journeys.” Tankred handed her the glass, put the bottle on the table between them and settled opposite her. “It's not always as awful as the tales have it, but it happens often enough to justify its fame.”

Ciri investigated the wine in the light of the fire “Is that the Côte-de-Blessure you mentioned?”

“Year 1260; seven hundred bottles still in existence, of which my father had five hundred.” He smiled at her, raising his glass in a toast. “I'm keeping them for special occasions.”

She raised hers in response and tried the wine. It was rich and full, with only a hint of bitterness; the sublime notes of cinnamon and berries hit her palate and evoked the images of all those lazy, sunny afternoons she spent with Geralt and Yennefer in Corvo Bianco. She was no expert, but she'd tried enough rare wines to tell this one was unique. 

“This tastes like happy memories,” she looked around the chamber. “And this room feels like a home.”

“I wouldn’t have put it better myself,” Tankred smiled. “It's cosy, isn't it? My mother decorated it. Whatever free time I have, I tend to spend it here.”

“How come I haven't met your mother yet?” Ciri frowned.

“She lives in Creyden, with my eldest sister,” Tankred said. “I sent her there while she was recovering, so that she could enjoy the company, and the milder climate. But when I wanted to bring her back to the court, she refused.” He broke off for a moment, then continued in a slightly altered tone. “Ever since my father's death, she rarely leaves her room; all she does is read the Good Book. When I told her about you, it was the first time I've seen her smile since my youngest nephew was born, four years ago.”

Ciri watched, mesmerised, as his carefully crafted facade cracked—just a fraction, but it was enough to see a glimpse of something raw underneath. 

“You said they were close, your parents,” she offered softly. “That must have been a shock.”

“As much devotion as I have for her, my mother cannot be called a beauty by any standard,” Tankred said. “And yet my father had always treated her like she was the best thing that had happened to him. He did truly love her; he died to save her life. She has never recovered.”

“The stories I heard about my parents growing up were all about how fate brought them together; how they conquered all that stood in the way of their happiness,” Ciri said, struggling to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “And when I confronted Emhyr, he told me outright he had never loved my mother. He claimed she was but a means to an end. This was one of the reasons I didn't want to go back to this life; I hate the idea of being somebody's tool—” She broke off noticing Tankred's raised eyebrows. “What?” she grimaced. 

“Not five months ago you showed up in Pont Vanis, terrorised my chamberlain, and demanded my help. Then, in no uncertain terms, you implied that if I knew what was good for me, I should have proposed to you,” he said dryly. “Afterwards, you went off and pushed Nilfgaard back behind Amell mountains. I don't know what your definition of a tool is, but in this story it's me who looks remarkably like one.”

“That is a gross exaggeration,” she scoffed, but had to smile.

“Really.” He retorted. “Which part?”

“I didn't terrorise your chamberlain.”

Tankred laughed.

“He confessed to me later he was afraid you were a sorceress.”

“Yennefer’s lessons,” Ciri grinned, but the smile faded quickly. She sighed. “That was different though. I had the element of surprise on my side. Now they all know what to expect from me.”

“I find it unlikely, since I still don't know what to expect from you, and I'm the one who’s supposed to marry you,” Tankred pointed out with a more than a hint of irony; he studied her for a moment in silence. “Why did you come back, in the end? What made you change your mind?”

She was silent for a while, looking into the dancing flames as she mulled over the answer. 

“Emhyr,” she said eventually. “Or rather, the glimpses I saw of the way he ruled. He was ruthless and cruel, but what was driving him—other than boundless ambition—was this ever-present sense of responsibility. And then he was murdered… Initially, it was just an urge, a crazy idea. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised I was the only one who had the means to change anything. Emhyr's death meant even worse conditions for Cintra. And these people were,” she grimaced, “or rather, should have been, my responsibility.”

“Do you regret it?” He asked quietly. 

She shot him a glance.

“Sometimes,” she admitted, choosing the words carefully. “It's difficult, it's disheartening, and it's lonely. And both Dijkstra and Voorhis are busy putting together contingency plans on how to get rid of me.”

Tankred gave her a smile. 

“Whatever they throw at us, we'll deal with it, together.”

Ciri studied him for a few heartbeats.

“You do mean it,” she said. 

“Of course I mean it,” Tankred shrugged. “Our interests, and therefore our problems, are aligned now: weakened Cintra means trouble for Kovir. Besides, I told you I had never intended to make you into my adversary. I don't want to waste time looking over my shoulder, when we both need to focus on what's ahead.”

“And that is?” she asked sipping her drink.

“Control over the North,” he said matter-of-factly and she nearly choked on the wine. 

“I needn't have asked,” she breathed. He was looking at her with that crooked smile of his. “ _How?”_

“I would like for our borders to make a little more sense.” His tone turned cheeky. “But I'll accept vassal oaths for now.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded. “You have to elaborate.”

Tankred drank some of the wine himself, and relaxed deeper into the cushions, completely at ease. 

“I'm sure you realise that the only thing we need to gain control over Temeria are a stronger army and a good reason,” he began. “Them coming to you is only a matter of time, but we need to be ready—”

“To me?” she interrupted him.

“Yes, you,” Tankred said with a smile. “To them, I’m only a name. You are the famous Lion Cub of Cintra, Queen Calanthe’s rightful successor. You're a powerful symbol, and once people realise there's also substance behind it, they’ll come; Temerians included. Don't forget Foltest’s heir remains missing. My money is on the girl being kept hidden until they can secure an alliance that will keep them safe. Dijkstra’s grip on the country is strong; they hate him more than Nilfgaard, which is impressive in itself. Us joining forces gives them a chance they haven’t had in nearly a decade. The country is in ruin though; they will need a lot of resources to get back on their feet.

“It's almost certain Lyria and Rivia will come to you after Meve,” he continued after a small pause. “They won't be strong enough on their own, they'll need protection—and knowing her heir, Meve may simply offer you the vassal oath herself in the coming years to secure the country's future, once she's satisfied we know what we're doing. She outright told me she'll be keeping an eye on us.”

Ciri was silent, thinking his words through. None of this was a revelation, but the pieces arranged together like that, with a purpose behind it, and the overall picture changed a lot.

“That leaves Redania,” Tankred added, refilling their glasses. “And for that I need your insight. For the time being I have no idea how to tackle it. There's an old pact of neutrality signed between Redania and Kovir, but I agree with what you implied back during our first meeting—Dijkstra never planned to honour it.”

“Philippa,” Ciri mused, but she paused when she noticed his darkened expression. She frowned at him, then connected the facts. “Don't tell me it was her who was behind your father's assassination.”

“I have no proof,” Tankred said, his voice deadly quiet. “But her and Sheala are my top suspects.”

Ciri rubbed her forehead. 

“Just when I thought nothing from the Lodge would ever surprise me,” she said. “But we may be able to use that as a leverage if we ever consider any moves against Dijkstra. We need to be much, much stronger though.”

“Let’s see how the situation evolves,” he drank a little wine in silence. When he spoke again, his simmering rage was buried once more, his tone thoughtful. “It was only after your visit in Pont Vanis that I realised the full impact of your request. I have no ties, familial or otherwise, to any other remaining power in the North; you would be helpless alone. But our marriage puts us in a truly unique position, impossible to achieve in any other way.”

Ciri shook her head, dazed. 

“I can’t believe we just discussed the possibility of taking over the Continent.”

“Only half of it,” Tankred pointed out, a shadow of a smirk back on his lips. “You're getting carried away here. Unless you want to claim that imperial throne for yourself, after all?”

“Not at the moment, but I might get greedy,” she snorted. She studied him over a rim of her glass. “I much prefer you like that.”

He raised his eyebrows in a question. “Conquering the world?”

“Serious,” she scoffed. “With none of that courting nonsense.”

Tankred barked out a laugh, his head thrown back, and something in Ciri's gut unclenched at the sight.

“Blessed Lebioda,” he managed, “you're the first woman ever to say that to me.”

“Really.” She tilted her head. “Just how special does that make me?”

“Incredibly special,” Tankred shook his head, laughter bright in his eyes. “You're a fascinating puzzle I look forward to spending years trying to solve.”

Ciri was looking at him, his words sinking in. This was never going to be _loving her for who she was_ , but maybe—just maybe—it could become the next best thing. 

If she allowed it. 

His darkened eyes followed her when she rose from the settee; she let her fingers brush his as she took his glass away and put it on the side table. In one fluid motion, Tankred sat up and took a hold of her injured hand; he placed a kiss on the inside of her palm not covered by the bandage, his eyes never leaving hers. With a free hand, she touched his cheek, tracing the outline of his jaw, his perfectly trimmed beard tickling her fingers. 

“I take it to mean you approve of my goals.” His voice was pure honey again, quiet, suggestive, and her body reacted to it immediately, turning her blood to fire. But he wasn’t making any moves, giving her the space to withdraw had she wanted to. 

A considerate gesture, if no longer necessary. 

“Short term ones, especially,” Ciri smiled as she pushed him back onto the cushions; he pulled her with him and she fell forward, claiming his lips. There was no space for softness there this time; the kiss all teeth and tongues and hunger, his hand in her hair, his scent enveloping her, and it was finally everything she needed; it was wild, it was _perfect_. 

Tankred bit her lip and Ciri gasped; their hands were touching wherever they could reach at this awkward angle. She straddled him; he was already hard and the feeling of his cock rubbing against her shot a bolt of heat right through her. He moaned into her mouth; a needy sound that felt like an echo of the fever that consumed her, each fiber of her body demanding _more._

Her trembling fingers tugged impatiently at the buckles of his tunic; she let out a curse and he chuckled against her lips, helping her with the more complicated fasteners. He sat up to shrug it off and she claimed his lips again, her hands hungrily running down his naked back.

With a considerable skill he unlaced the back of her dress and slid it off her shoulders, his lips abandoning hers to track a line down to her clavicle. She arched into his touch, her nails scraping his bare chest and stomach, pulling his belt away in a desperate attempt to remove as many layers of fabric separating them as possible. 

She let her fingers slip under the waistband of his breeches; he inhaled sharply as she brushed against the tip of his cock. Before she knew it, he had her flipped onto her back, his lips on her breasts, parting only to discard the rest of his clothes. He pushed her skirt up, sliding his hands up her legs, ripping her lacy smallclothes out of the way. Ciri arched up with a needy moan, but it achieved nothing; his touch remained teasingly close, but never quite where she needed him the most.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, his cock pressing against her flesh. She took him in her hand and stroked him, eliciting a delicious groan; in response, he sucked and bit her nipple. She let out a desperate gasp, the burning need in her reaching new levels. But this wasn't enough, none of this was enough—

“ _Tankred_ ,” she managed, which was supposed to be demanding, but came out as a plea.

He moved up to kiss her, at the same time slipping his fingers inside her, his thumb teasing her swollen clit. His lips muffled her moan, but she couldn’t help jerking her hips up to intensify the sensation; gods, it had been too long, it was too good, it was— 

Tankred removed his fingers and before she had a chance to protest, to demand more, he grabbed her hips and pushed into her in one deep thrust that made her cry out and dig her nails into his shoulders. His eyes bore into hers, burning with intensity that took her breath away. 

“You're beautiful,” he murmured as he began to fuck her, keeping his movements excruciatingly slow. 

Ciri had enough; she pulled him down and kissed him furiously.

“Tankred, please,” she breathed, writhing underneath him. “ _Please_.”

At that, his control finally crumbled. He grabbed her hips and sped up to meet her demand; she wrapped her legs around him, hands grasping onto the edges of the settee as she gave herself over to the pleasure, to this most primal of instincts, to him.

She was sure she would have bruises where his fingers clutched at her flesh, but it didn't matter; all that mattered was the fever, the rush of blood in her veins as he pounded into her, gloriously possessive; his teeth bared, his breath coming in fast—

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon,” he growled in a low, raspy voice; each of her names like a spell, like an incantation. “You are _mine_.”

Her nerves ablaze, her body arching off the chaise, she cried out as she came; her vision blurring, her world narrowing down to a single sensation of pleasure and release.

***

She was half lying on Tankred’s chest, curled up on the uncomfortably narrow settee, but entirely too spent to move. He was leaning against the headrest, looking down at her with a small smile

“I trust this goes some length towards proving to you that my admiration is genuine,” he said quietly.

“Some length, yes.” She tilted her head up to give him an innocent look. “But I’m afraid I'm still not _entirely_ convinced...”

“I see.” Tankred laughed as he leaned forward, his lips almost touching hers. “If that's the case, would you care to move to either bed? It is only reasonable that I do all I can to dispel your doubts, and as you may have noticed, these settees are dreadfully uncomfortable for two people.”

She chuckled, the tension seeping out of her. She pulled him in and kissed him, and damn, it felt _good_ to simply indulge in this without having to question everything.

“Then why keep them, and not get something that is more suited to your needs?” she murmured. 

The smile he shot her in response was full of mischievous appreciation. 

“Every now and then they are used according to their design. And they come in useful without being obvious as to their purpose.”

She had to laugh at that.

“Pragmatist.”

“Through and through,” he agreed. “Business and pleasure, remember?”

Ciri stretched, relishing in the lingering sensation of sweet, heavy satisfaction. His fingers were lazily drawing some complex patterns on her skin that sent a wave of promising sparks down her spine. 

The next best thing, truly. 

“I begin to recognise the wisdom of your ways,” she grinned at him.

“I am so very glad to hear it, my queen.” Tankred took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Come, let's move.”

“Easier said than done,” Ciri grumbled as she made a clumsy attempt to disentangle from his embrace without plummeting to the floor. 

“I promise it will be worth the effort,” he announced with emphasis, holding her arm to steady her and help her up. 

She shook her head at him as she stood and hopelessly tried to fix her dress; she had a quiet suspicion it was ruined. She wasn't going to complain though, all things considered. 

She noticed Tankred’s look and grinned at him. “I liked it,” she told him. “It brought out my eyes.”

“It brings out so much more now,” he laughed, extending his hand to her.

Rolling her eyes at him, she followed him to the bedroom, feeling a lot more optimistic about the future. 

***

When Ciri woke up, it took her a long moment to take in her surroundings: the massive bed with an oxblood canopy, the tapestry in dark green and gold on the opposite wall, the crackling of the fire, barely audible over the howl of the wind outside. 

Grey light was seeping in through a crack in thick, heavy curtains, and the sight of it made her shake off the rest of the sleepy haziness. Two things became certain: she was in Tankred's chambers, with him nowhere in sight—and it was late.

She couldn't help a smile as a wave of memories came. She was rather prone to rash decisions, but to go from questioning Tankred's every word to being blissfully tucked in his bed, all in the space of one night, was fast even by her standards. But she didn't get a false note from him all evening; his reasoning was logical, and his plans were just mad enough for her to trust they were real. 

Besides, it felt incredibly good to finally be able to let her guard down and take what was offered. It had been ages since she'd allowed herself such shameless indulgence, and she hadn't expected many opportunities for it in her current situation. 

It appeared she might have been wrong. 

She stretched, her body still all soft and heavy. It had been worth to move from the lounge to the bedroom, like Tankred promised, but maybe not in the way he had planned. When he brought her to the edge again, a gasping mess under his fingers and tongue, she decided she was done with being passive—and so she sucked him off until he was just as much of a begging mess, then she mounted him and rode out her pleasure as he arched underneath her, her name a moan on his breath. 

Business and pleasure, indeed.

Afterwards, she attempted to voice some barely intelligible concerns, but Tankred only silenced her with a sloppy kiss, and told her to sleep. And so she did; curled up beside him, his arm around her waist, the warmth of his body like a cocoon.

But now she was alone again.

She couldn't help a pang of disappointment—was the fragile connection she thought they’d begun to develop merely her wishful thinking? But then she reminded herself that while she was being spoilt as a guest of honour, his duties wouldn't have stopped because of her visit. She had no idea what his schedule was like, but it likely didn't involve sleeping till noon.

With some effort she rolled out of the bed. She found one of Tankred’s robes hanging off the back of an armchair, warmed by the fire; she wrapped it around her shoulders and went to investigate the bathing chamber.

Its decor, as the rest of the palace, did not disappoint. The bath itself—more of a pool, big enough for six, with ledges of varying angles running all along its length—stood in the middle, the scented steam rolling off its surface, terribly inviting. It didn't help that the scent vaguely reminded her of him.

Ciri spent a moment investigating the room. Plants of all types and sizes filled every available space, climbing the walls and hanging off the wooden beams. A few tall windows gave little light, their shutters closed; instead, countless candles in intricate holders made of small, colourful pieces of stained glass lit up the room, a rainbow of colours dancing on the dark orange walls. The overall effect was gorgeous, and exotic, but there was absolutely nothing she could see that would explain this engineering marvel, located as it was on the top floor of the palace. Kovir's fame for attracting talented people with outrageous ideas was clearly justified.

She finally gave up, shrugged off the robe and sank into the pool with a delighted sigh. She picked a ledge she could half lay on and closed her eyes, the heat of the water working wonders on her tensed muscles. 

She could get used to this. And considering the circumstances, she might even have a chance to do so.

***

She was dozing off when Tankred found her.

“I thought you might be lurking in here,” he smiled. “Good morning.”

“How late is it?” she asked lazily. She couldn’t tell how much time had passed; whatever magic was at work here, it kept the water at the exactly perfect temperature. 

“Just past midday. You don't have to face the world for another two hours. Hungry?”

“Starving,” she shifted to another ledge so that she could see him. “Busy morning?”

“A few things I had to take care of.” Tankred put a tray with fruit and pastries on a low bench within her reach, and sat beside it. “You were fast asleep; I didn't want to wake you.”

She took one of the pastries, a golden roll sprinkled with sugar. 

“Is the fact that I stayed going to be a problem?” she asked, tearing away a piece of the roll and popping it into her mouth. It was as delicious as it looked: buttery and sweet and soft.

“The servants here are trustworthy,” Tankred said, picking up a piece of fruit himself. “I wouldn't worry.”

“What about appearances? Which version do you want to display?”

He reached out and brushed sugar off her lips with a thumb, making her pulse quicken.

“Within these walls? None,” he said quietly. “We should discuss the public image, agreed, but in here, I want the truth.”

“The truth?” Ciri tilted her head, giving into the temptation. He was right here; it would’ve been a shame to let a perfectly fine opportunity go to waste. “How about: get out of these clothes and join me?”

Tankred laughed.

“I much prefer you like that,” he threw her own words back at her.

“No surprises there,” she retorted. “Since you're getting what you wanted.”

“What I wanted?” Tankred said with mock offence, disrobing quickly, and she couldn't help but to appreciate the view. He wasn't built like the men who lived by the sword, naturally, but he kept himself in a good shape, with his broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a stomach with just a hint of softness. She already got a flavour of his strength, and was very much looking forward to more.

Completely unbothered by her gaze, Tankred lowered himself into the steaming waters beside her, and pulled her towards him until she was straddling him, his lips a breath away. A shiver she wasn't able to surpass ran along her spine; he noticed her reaction and that smirk of his lit up his eyes.

“What _I_ wanted?” he repeated quietly, his tone now a challenge, his lips moving to hover over her ear; he kissed the soft skin just below it and she let out an involuntary sigh. He grazed her earlobe with his teeth, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Go on, tell me how you didn't want it.” He caressed her neck, each pause accented by a kiss, or a nibble of teeth. “Tell me. You didn't want. Me.” 

The teasing was like a slow, sweet torture; his touch burning on her skin, but even sinking as fast as she was, Ciri wasn't going to go down without a fight.

“I didn't...” She managed, breathless. “Not before… It's your doing…”

That earned her a bite; she gasped as a current of raw desire shot through her. His hands moved to fondle her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples and she arched back, all her senses on fire, her nails digging into his back. 

“Let's start again,” Tankred whispered, his hands sliding down to her waist. She bucked her hips in desperation, but he held her firmly in place, not letting her get any friction where she absolutely, painfully needed it. “Tell me what you want right now.”

She whined in protest, wriggling in his grip, but he just leaned forward and bit her nipple. 

“ _Tell me_.”

She gasped at the mix of pain and pleasure, a hand in his hair pulling him closer; but still refusing to give in. He stroked the inside of her thighs, getting teasingly close. 

“I need you to say it,” Tankred repeated, his voice dropping low; he grabbed her ass, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

Her head spinning, she was unable to think. She shouldn't have let him reduce her to this state; she should have been in control, the way she would’ve always been...

“ _Please_ ,” was all she managed instead, a broken, pleading moan.

“What was it?” His fingers were crawling towards her clit now and she jerked her hips again and finally, finally— 

She let out a desperate sob, any pretence of resistance withering away; his touch both too much and not enough.

“Fuck me, I need you to fuck me, please, _please_...”

He flipped her onto her stomach; the edge of the bath was uncomfortable and cold, but she paid it no mind, especially once—

She didn't recognise her own voice in the cry that escaped her when he thrust into her. Her hands found a grip and she pushed back, driving him in as deep as possible as he proceeded to fuck the sounds out of her she hadn't thought herself capable of making. She pressed her eyes closed, focused only on the feel of him, on the pleasure building up, carrying her higher and higher.

“Is this what you want?” His voice was unrecognisable, guttural, his breath hot on her neck as he slammed into her. _“Say it.”_

“Gods yes… Don't stop,” she whimpered; the only thing left of her was this mindless need. “Faster… Please…” 

He yanked her hair and pulled her up, her body arching back.

“Come for me,” he growled into her ear and something deep inside her shattered, the orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave, her mind a storm of white noise, then silence.

  


She came to her senses cradled in Tankred's arms; he held her against his chest, his hand in her hair.

“Holy mother,” she murmured into his neck, unable to move.

“Indeed.” He sounded out of breath as he laughed softly and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “After last night, I had an inkling you might enjoy it.”

“That might be an understatement,” Ciri took a few deep breaths, her heartbeat slowly returning to normal, but getting some coherent thoughts together was still near impossible. “ _Gods_.”

“At your service, my queen.” He sounded altogether too smug, but she couldn't find it in her to hold that against him.

“I will take you up on that.” She raised her head to look at him. “Was this what you had in mind when you suggested I might enjoy the non official part of my visit to Kovir?”

“Something along these lines,” Tankred smirked. He lifted her chin with his finger and placed a fleeting kiss on her lips. “You're gorgeous. Especially when you come undone for me like that.”

“At least now you gave me a pretty solid proof this isn't an act,” she scoffed. 

“Ciri,” Tankred's tone made her meet his eyes. “There are many things you can accuse me of being, and with a good reason, but _blind_ is not one of them. Me wanting you has never been an act. You should be more suspicious of those who don't show you admiration.”

His words struck a chord. He noticed, and frowned. 

“What is it?” 

“Is Perricho dangerous?”

He looked confused for a moment, then barked out a laugh.

“Court scheming, _now_? Your focus is enviable.” 

“Pleasure and business, remember?” She grinned at him. Tankred just shook his head.

“He's troublesome, and I'm still investigating the role he played in our shipment problems, but I haven't considered him more dangerous than that,” he said eventually. “Why?”

“Just the way he's talking to me...”

“You really don't trust compliments,” Tankred said, amused. She scowled, readying a response, but he cut her off. “I'm keeping an eye on him,” he reassured her.

Ciri nodded and sank back into his embrace, unwilling to break the physical contact just yet. She felt content, light, as if some heavy burden was taken off her. 

“I almost forgot what it's like to truly relax,” she sighed. If a good fucking was a remedy for all her worries—and man, was it _good_ —she should have administered it a long time ago.

“I did tell you to indulge yourself more,” Tankred pointed out, stroking her back in slow moves.

She tilted head just enough to glare at him.

“Do I need to remind you that you were partially responsible for my stress levels?”

“That’s because you kept overthinking this.” Tankred said, ignoring her scowl. “But let's see if I can redeem myself some more.” 

He reached behind the bath's edge and produced a vial of oil. She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Do I even want to know?” 

“Maybe next time,” he shot her a smile and she laughed, but a wave of heat surged through her all the same. “For now, turn around.”

Ciri obeyed as he uncorked the small bottle and poured some of its contents into his hand; a concentrated scent of passionflower hit her nostrils. 

In a slow, sweeping motion he rubbed the oil into her shoulders and started massaging her muscles. She didn't realise just how tense she still was until his fingers skillfully removed some of the built-up pressure.

“Where did you—ouch!”

“You are wound up like a spring, ready to snap,” Tankred murmured, working on a particularly stubborn knot, and Ciri did all she could not to squirm. 

“Things haven't been particularly easy recently… Ah! Gods, you're good,” she gasped as the muscle finally let go and his fingers moved to another target. She let her eyes close, and for a long moment she simply relished in a combination of pain and release his touch brought; his movements causing an occasional splash of water the only sounds. “Where did you learn that?”

“I had a fencing teacher from Ofier once, years ago.” She heard him smiling. “He was brutally demanding, but he also showed me a few tricks so that I could move again afterwards. Is it working?”

“Are you kidding me?” Ciri said happily. This was bliss. “At this rate, you can forget the monthly meetings; you'll have me here demanding those services of yours after every debate on the succession laws. Which is twice a week, just so you know.”

“How is that going?” Tankred's thumbs were now sliding up and down the back of her neck, making small circles at the base of her skull.

“Frustratingly slow,” she grimaced. “Only a few stubborn idiots outright deny me the right to the throne, but a lot of other voices are subtly implying I should just hold off till our wedding, citing traditions and all…”

“How incredibly thoughtful. Do they not realise you are the sole reason these discussions can take place at all?”

“They claim it's because of you, not me.”

“Tell them I was just a tool,” Tankred suggested, and Ciri was about to react, but the pressure of his hands kept her in place. “ _Relax_. It's called a joke. Will you manage to get it finalised before Imbolc?”

With a sigh, she rubbed her forehead. 

“I hope so, or I will be forced to postpone the wedding. As things stand, the day we're married you become the recognised ruler and my hands are tied.” She spun around to face him. “And while I appreciate everything you did, let me make it absolutely clear this is not happening.”

He let out a quiet laugh. 

“It didn't even cross my mind. You know what I'm aiming for; pushing you aside would not help me in the slightest. Besides, I’m not suicidal. Feeling better?”

“Much better,” she smiled at him. “Thank you.“

“You are most welcome, my queen.“ Tankred brushed a string of wet hair off her forehead. “I’m afraid we're running out of time; we need to be presentable soon.”

“Deeply unfair,” she murmured as she leaned forward, dragging him into a kiss. His hand weaved into her hair as he kissed her back, and a feeling of calm washed over her at the realisation that most of her problems were under control for the time being. 

She knew this wouldn't last; there were countless trials and challenges awaiting her— _them_ —but those were still in the future. And that future didn't look half bad.

“You were right earlier,” Ciri murmured against his lips when they parted. 

Tankred pulled back a little to look at her.

“Agreeing with me, again? Careful, or I'll get used to that. What was I right about this time?”

She took him in: the playful sparks in his eyes, that ironic smile; his lips, soft and demanding at once. She may have arguably become a little weak for him, but it wasn’t the only thing he succeeded in, nor was it the most important one. It dawned on her that somewhere along the way, little tendrils of fragile trust took root. She no longer felt alone against the world. 

With a smile, she trailed her fingers down his cheek. 

“This idea of a marriage is growing on me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are what sustains me. I'm also on [tumblr](https://andordean.tumblr.com) \- feel free to scream at me.


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